


not much is really sacred

by voodoochild



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Aunt/Nephew Incest, F/M, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Older Woman/Younger Man, Poverty, Pre-Series, Quiet Sex, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 11:45:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6853312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's three months after her children were taken from her, and Polly still wakes up looking for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not much is really sacred

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **ceebee-eebee's** prompt of "kissing to stay quiet", because oh my god, I am so weak for pre-series Shelbys. Takes place 3 months after Michael and Anna are taken, which makes Tommy about 20. 
> 
> Title from Bob Dylan's "It's All Right Ma, I'm Only Bleeding", which is such a Peaky song.

Dead of winter, enough wood for only a single fire, so they'd all piled into Polly's bed. 

He knows what respectable society would call them: Disgusting. Low-class. Godless. Sheer revulsion for five children and their aunt who would sleep together in one bed, and he doesn't fucking know what other choice they were supposed to make. There's no chance of going out to chop more wood; he or Arthur would freeze after five minutes, Polly in barely one. The little attic room has a draft and there's no money to fix it, so there's no chance of Ada and Polly sleeping respectably apart from the boys.

Besides, looking at Ada curled up between Arthur and John, her doll in one lax arm, and looking at Finn half-sprawled on John's shoulder, he wouldn't have the heart to move them anyway. There's enough blankets to keep some heat in the room, though he'd conceded to the chill and taken the thinnest for himself as he sits in Polly's armchair with a cup of tea. He hasn't slept much this winter, and from the look of Polly, tossing and turning, twitching in a nightmare, neither has she.

She gasps as she sits bolt upright, her hand jammed against her mouth to stifle the scream, and her eyes fly to the children next to her. He watches her stroke Finn's hair, pull the blanket down over John's feet, touch Arthur's shoulder and Ada's head to be sure they're there, and she's crying, shaking with holding the noise in. Her eyes flick wild as she counts, doesn't find him, and he clears his throat.

"Pol," he says, a low whisper as to not wake the rest, and holds out his hand. "It's all right."

Slips out of the bed in her nightdress, hisses as her feet hit the cold floor, and only hesitates a moment before curling up on his lap while he wraps the blanket around them both. She buries her nose in the crook of his neck, warming her chilled face and crying both, and he can't bear how she breaks his heart sometimes.

"It's all right," he says again, stroking at the wreck of her curls, "we're all here."

Unlike her children. Unlike bright-eyed Michael and tiny little Anna, who were taken only three months ago. There hasn't been a night he hasn't heard her crying, that she hasn't woken up searching for them in the dark, only to be reminded that they're gone.

"They took them," she whispers, and he kisses at her temple while she shudders against him. "They take them every single night and I can't _stop_ them."

"Hush, I know. I know. But we're here, Pol, you kept us safe and fed."

It doesn't quiet her; she's so tiny in his arms, but her voice carries. He doesn't want her to wake the others - Finn's only just sleeping through the night again, and Arthur had worked a double shift at the factory. They need some peace, and so does Polly, her breath hot against his neck.

"It's not bloody enough, Thomas. Not when we're still scrambling to pay for the house and the business is bleeding money and Ada needs a new school dress and your boots have more holes than a pincushion, I don't know-"

He presses his mouth to hers, doesn't know what possesses him. There's always been a pull between them; over the past few years, as he grew and learnt what his body wanted, it had increasingly been Polly. She'd seen it - there's not much she misses - and she'd let it alone until a year ago, when Ian had died and she'd wanted comfort. They never speak of it, nor of how he'd cared for her after the kids were taken, pulled her out of a bloody well of grief.

"Hush, sweetheart, please. It'll be all right, I swear it will." He breathes the words against her mouth, wrapping her in his arms, and they've got to be silent, the rest are sleeping not two metres away. She makes a soft sob, opening to him, and she tastes like sleep and tea. "Trust me, yeah? I can get the money."

"It's not - *God* - it's not just the money-"

She has her chilled little fingers on his face and he pulls back, kisses each of her fingers while she squirms and bites her lip. Tips forward against his chest and captures his mouth again. Christ, he loves kissing her, he'd do it for hours if she'd let him. She bites his lip gently, and he has to hold the groan deep in his chest.

"Pol, please, you know what that does to me," he breathes. Twines his fingers in her hair, wraps his other arm around her waist, and she's maddeningly soft and warm. "Shhhh, we'll wake them-"

She kisses him slow this time, desperate, reluctantly pulls back and rests her palms against his chest. "We _can't_ ," she says, and he knows what she means. There's nothing in the world that would keep them quiet enough to do more, and they can't go to another room because of the cold. If they tried it in his bed, the cold would get them far sooner than the squeaky mattress.

"All right." He kisses her cheek, lets her curl against his chest to calm both of their breathing. "We're all right. We'll figure this out. You and me, Pol."

They've lived through worse, and come out the other side.


End file.
